


Games

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie’s never really got the hang of the romance thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games

Charlie’s never really got the hang of the romance thing.

He can’t deny this, not when he’s reached almost thirty with pretty much only his own hand and his big brother to cite as accomplices in his sexual experiments.

Not that he’s going to be citing either of those to any potential partners. He and Don don’t even talk about the _thing_ that happened between them. In fact, more than that: they Don’t Talk About It and those capital letters are very real, at least to Charlie, in the conversations they don’t have. Even tonight, watching the game at Don’s place together like any brothers might, there’s a reason Don’s on the sofa with a beer and Charlie’s got the armchair a few feet away.

“So, how’s it going with Amita?”

Dangerous territory, and for once Charlie wishes he didn’t gag at the taste of beer, but it’s just not him. Graduation day, one of Don’s classmates let him sneak a drink, and Charlie’s convinced a thousand brain cells died that day. Probably chucked them up all over his shoes, and the sweetest alcohol still tastes faintly of sourness and shame.

“Oh, you know.” Charlie risks a look, and Don’s eyes are fixed on the TV, his fingers loose on the bottle. “Same, really.”

“She won’t wait forever, buddy,” is all Don says, and that’s nothing new.

“I know.”

The ball on screen flies off over the heads of the crowd and Don whistles.

“You know, they consulted with one of the guys from my department when they built the stadium. There’s this complex—”

But Don’s already smiling, the corners of his mouth just crinkling the way they do, and Charlie has to pass the chips over again. “You didn’t even let me get started!”

“Rules are rules, Charlie. No math during the game, or you can go home and watch with Dad.”

“Right, I know, I know.” It soothes him to nibble though, and Don knows that, doesn’t he? He won’t fine him _all_ the chips that are left, or–

Don just looks at Charlie’s nervous hands and snorts. He passes the bag back, and on the TV the crowd’s going wild now, the commentators gesticulating and showing too many teeth. It’s like watching the Physics department on fast forward.

Charlie doesn’t know who’s won.

He can’t even concentrate on working it out from the frantic gestures and conversations on screen, because his brain is working on the eternally impossible Friday night problem that he still hasn’t found the answer to; the one where there’s a solution to getting out of the room and into the spare bed without thinking about kissing Don good night, but he hasn’t found it yet. There’s no equation to tell him the probability that Don would kiss him back, or if the taste of Don would be enough to cover the taste of shame if he did. There are no numbers, no graphs, no programs he can run, to tell him what’s in Don’s head when he says good night without taking his eyes off the screen, and if there’s meaning in the grip that tightens on his beer bottle, then it’s one Charlie can’t interpret.

In the dark of the spare room though, he can focus on it, the image of those flexing fingers, just long enough to bring it back. And maybe it’s only his own hand that strokes feverishly over his cock, and maybe it’s childish, or petty or something to want to come and come and _come_ all over Don’s clean sheets, but there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that next Friday, he won’t be the only one who Doesn’t Talk About something.


End file.
